


The Unselfish Effort

by L-aviateur (Hannah_Kerela)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Age-related UST, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannah_Kerela/pseuds/L-aviateur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Watson had been just a bit young, and Holmes had been just a bit old?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unselfish Effort

**Author's Note:**

> Another kinkmeme story for which I've long ago lost the prompt.

The blue-eyed ex-soldier had limped into his life, as easily as any potential client ran screaming into it. All of the reluctance and problems that the latter held were embodied in the former, but the former held his attention for far longer. He could have survived on his own, conceivably. He had the experience and years to find a respectable job on the force fairly quickly, but that life had never been for him, in the same way that a conventional family man would never be for this strange creature he'd stumbled across.  
  
At first, the boy had been broken, physically and mentally, but that hadn't been a serious consideration - he was a loner by nature, and if his flatmate needed space, he could certainly accommodate him. They had made the arrangements without serious issue, and had set a date to move their personal belongings in. The boy, by some natural charm he seemed to exude, had also managed to convince not only Stamford, but Lestrade to assist in moving the pair in. He had to admit he was impressed at that point.  
  
Things had progressed rapidly after that and, before he quite knew it, they were moved in and settling into a comfortable routine. The boy slept at night, and he worked, they ate in the mornings together and exchanged pleasantries, both worked during the day - the boy on physical therapy, and himself on his experiments. He took his clients downstairs at the door, to avoid agitating his flatmate. They dined together in the evening, then went their separate ways for the night. It was an easy life, and they both seemed content.  
  
Then, everything had changed. It was something innocuous, he couldn't even remember what had prompted it, but the boy had dived out of his chair and ducked close to the floor with a yell of surprise and warning and shut his eyes tightly. He'd been shocked for a moment - never until that incident had he truly comprehended how young and fragile his flatmate truly was: he was a merely a boy. that had been thrust into war, forced to see things far beyond his years, then yanked back out painfully and cruelly without time to heal. However, even his sudden pity for the boy didn't quite explain why he felt compelled to bend and pull the boy closer to him, holding him to his chest silently until he was able to begin to calm down, and then for a long while afterward.  
  
It was after that incident that the informal apprenticeship of his flatmate began. He took it upon himself to both protect the boy and teach him what he would need to know to get over the fears that war had given him, from reintroducing him to gunshots, all the way to talking through the guilt he felt at the lives he'd been unable to save: the boy, insisting that he should have done more and himself the voice of reason that reminded him that there was not more for him to have done, until the guilt for the lives had faded from its original, crippling intensity.  
  
But, perhaps, he ought to have left gunshots to someone else. The lessons took the pair down to the docks, where one could fire into the water without serious risk of harming anyone. On their first session, he had begun by firing the gun into the river with only a verbal warning as preparation. Seeing the boy nearly fall into the water after the first shot had cured him of that method. He would have to find a way to support the boy and restrain him from his first reaction to the sounds.

 

In retrospect, tying the boy to something might have been better. Instead, he trusted more in his own ability to react and had ended up standing behind the boy, arms under the boy's shoulders, with his hands locked around the revolver in front of the boy. Once or twice, this was not a problem for either of them. But as they continued each session, he found himself increasingly distracted by the heat and slender form of the boy's body and the way that the boy fell against him at each shot, trembling hands clutching his arm and exposing the muscles that injury had left undisplayed for far too long.  
  
And then, _and then_ , the boy began playing rugby. The boy had even apparently come to see him as a compatriot and mentor of sorts, often encouraging him to come to the matches which, often against what he knew was the correct call, he agreed to do. That was, perhaps, the worst thing of all - to see that display of youthful elegance in a setting where the boy was also confident and eager was what bound him finally to his fate.  
  
By the end of three months, he knew two things:  
  
He wanted John Watson, and he absolutely, without a doubt, could not have him.

 

\---

 

He was quite certain that he was going to Hell.  
  
What kind of man was he, truly, to see Mr. Holmes as anything other than a friend, flatmate, and mentor? What kind of man was he, that the only dreams he had now were nightmares of war and fantasies of long, sleepless nights, his body tangled together with Mr. Holmes' body, their hearts beating together wildly as Mr. Holmes' mouth met his in a passionate kiss - a lover's kiss?  
  
He was going to Hell.  
  
It had begun, truly, one morning over breakfast. They had been discussing the weather - it had been raining - and Mr. Holmes' spoon had slipped to the table. He'd instantly found himself back in Afghanistan, and he had _known_ that enemy soldiers were near and he had ducked for cover and--  
  
And then, he'd felt a pair of wiry, strong arms pull him up out of the desert and he had been able to hear the steady, calming thud of a heart beating. When he came back around, Mr. Holmes had been holding him close, secure. He didn't let go for another five minutes.  
  
He supposed that Mr. Holmes had pitied him, because after that incident, the older man had begun watching him like a hawk. Every time he woke up screaming from the deserts and the blood, Mr. Holmes had magically appeared, holding him close with one arm and encouraging him to talk.  
  
And it had helped. Mr. Holmes had insisted, each and every time, that he had done everything that he had been capable of, and sometimes more than he _should_ have been capable of, to save those boys' lives. And, eventually, his guilt had faded to a dull throb, and the nightmares had lost their vivid intensity.  
  
But gunshots still sent him straight back to Afghanistan, and Mr. Holmes dealt with that, too. He had taken him down to the docks, and systematically re-taught him to hear guns. Their first attempt, he had embarrassingly tried to dive out of the way, and had nearly tumbled into the water.  
  
He had been as red as a beet and had felt like slinking off in shame, but Mr. Holmes hadn't said a single thing or given him any sort of critical look. He had merely come around, and stood behind him, arms under his shoulders and gun in front of the both of them. He suspected that it was not only to keep him from falling into the river, but that Mr. Holmes knew that physical contact could help keep him grounded.  
  
Still, it was difficult to concentrate on Mr. Holmes' words when he felt a growing arousal in his pants at Mr. Holmes' chest expanding against him, Mr. Holmes' long, wiry arms that were somehow as strong as any boxer's, Mr. Holmes' warm breath in his ear...  
  
He was going to Hell.  
  
When he finally recovered enough to do so, he resumed his favorite sport, rugby. He remembered his first match, a little too well; he had asked Mr. Holmes to come, and the older man had agreed.  
  
He had won the match for his team, and in his ecstasy, he had run over, pulling Mr. Holmes into an enthusiastic hug. The man had looked surprised, but had merely placed a congratulatory hand on his shoulder, grinned widely, then told him that they would have to go out to celebrate his "full physical recovery".  
  
It was that night, after seeing Holmes at the symphony they attended - so involved in the music, fingers flexing as if longing to pick up his violin and add his own melody line, face eager - that the dreams started.  
  
And, he may have been going to Hell for it, but it didn't stop him from wanting the one thing he'd never have: Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

 

\---

 

Her new lodgers were a peculiar lot, that much was apparent from the beginning. She could see from the start that Johnny - she would never call him that to his face, naturally, but he was still far too boyish to be a "Mr. Watson" in her mind - would need a firm supporting hand to recover from the horrors that he had seen and heard, just as she could see that Mr. Holmes would need a spark of energy in his life to keep from ending up an old, beekeeping hermit in Sussex for the last two decades of his life.  
  
She didn't foresee, however, how oblivious they would both be to the positive effects they had on each other. Johnny, of course, didn't see that Mr. Holmes was altogether more easily brought into the moment with him around, that even something so simple as a piece of music had taken on new life for him since they had begun to grow closer. She had met Mr. Holmes before on a few occasions, and never had he been so completely in love with the sound of a symphony before Johnny had, one day, asked the man to play his violin a bit longer.  
  
And, of course, Mr. Holmes failed to see that he had made Johnny altogether more stable, that the boy no longer did more than flinch at a sharp thud or the crack of her swatting a fly, and often not even that, if Mr. Holmes was in the room to scowl at her in annoyance. He had woken up screaming far less than he had at the beginning, and had eased into city with remarkable ease, with Mr. Holmes looking over his shoulder and intimidating away anyone who seemed as if they would do anything to startle the boy.  
  
Of course, she couldn't stand by and let them ignore the connection they had formed. It wasn't in her nature to ignore or frown upon any sort of love, even if that love was illegal. She had to take matters into her own hands, then, it seemed. She told both Johnny and Mr. Holmes to be at the table and ready to eat at seven sharp, or they would get nothing at all from her.  
  
She then spent the rest of the day meticulously preparing a meal for them, shooing them away from the kitchen whenever they attempted to see what she was up to. Johnny took that well enough, shrugging and heading back upstairs. Mr. Holmes was considerably less sanguine about it, not that she minded that at all.  
  
At seven, she brought the meal up, setting it between them and leaving without heeding their surprised questions - it was far above the "roast and potatoes" that either had expected. She shut the door behind her then, curiosity getting the best of her, peeking through the keyhole at them.  
  
Mr. Holmes and Johnny were eating quietly, each stealing glances at the other every now and then.  
  
"Watson," Mr. Holmes said, after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "Forgive my curiosity, but you have managed to defy all attempts at deducing your motives. Why London?"  
  
Johnny, poor boy, stopped, looking up. "Well, why not London?" he asked, tilting his head a bit.  
  
"You have family elsewhere in England, I gathered. Why not rejoin them?"  
  
Johnny's face darkened slightly. "I couldn't do that to my mother," he admitted. "Last she laid eyes on me, I had only recently turned old enough to enlist and I certainly wasn't some... some _cripple_."  
  
Mr. Holmes surprised her, and apparently Johnny, by reaching over and smacking Johnny's resting hand. The boy looked up at Mr. Holmes in shock.  
  
"Don't speak of yourself in that way, Watson," Mr. Holmes reprimanded sharply. "You are perfectly capable of anything - need I remind you that _you_ won the last three rugby matches for your team? That is not the mark of a cripple, my dear boy."

 

Johnny stared at Mr. Holmes, who merely leaned back, resuming his meal as if nothing had happened. "In any event, I _am_ glad to have you with-" she seemed to be the only one to notice his brief pause- " _Us_ in London," he noted.  
  
She smiled to herself - Mr. Holmes' disdain for the boys at Scotland Yard was legendary; he'd been elated to have company that was considerably more useful.  
  
Johnny, meanwhile, smiled for a different reason entirely, she thought, and leaned back himself, continuing to eat quietly.  
  
"So I have come upon a situation, Watson," Mr. Holmes said, carefully, after a few more silent minutes. "My brother needs me to run an errand on the Continent for him. I should be back within the week."  
  
Johnny looked up. "You'll be leaving, then?" he asked, looking slightly disturbed by the idea.  
  
Mr. Holmes nodded. "It's quite urgent, I'm afraid. I can't get out of it."  
  
She wondered just what Mr. Holmes' brother had done for Holmes to pull this favor out of him.  
  
Mr. Holmes, meanwhile, glanced up at Johnny. "Though, of course, if you were not adverse to the idea of a bit of traveling, I would appreciate a bit of company," he said, as if almost on an impulse.  
  
Johnny looked surprised. "Me?"  
  
"Only if you wish," Mr. Holmes assured him. "I would understand if you did not--"  
  
"Of course I will come, Mr. Holmes," Johnny said quickly. "When do we leave?"  
  
"Two days," Mr. Holmes said.  
  
She smiled, standing and heading back downstairs. A week alone would do them both a world of good, she was sure of it.

 

\---

 

The case was easy for Holmes, solved within a day - Holmes had to wonder what, precisely, made it so important that Mycroft had _insisted_ that he be the one to deal with it.  
  
He wished it hadn't been so easy, because if it had been harder, he would not have ended up taking a late-night stroll along the Seine with Watson. And if he had not ended up taking a late-night stroll along the Seine, they never would have been caught an hour away from their hotel in a sudden thundershower.  
  
And if they had been indoors, then the first thunderclap would _not_ have sent a startled and therefore off-balance Watson into the river, with Holmes close after.  
  
Which might have avoided their current predicament on the bank of the Seine, both of them soaked the the bone and looking for all the world like beggars.  
  
Bad planning aside, Holmes couldn't help but laugh at the soaking-wet and now slightly muddied image of his companion trying to wring out his jacket to no avail in the rain that continued to pour down on them.  
  
When Watson glanced up at him in annoyance, he only laughed harder. The younger man's glare held for only a moment, of course, before Watson joined in the hysterics as well, seeing Holmes' own ridiculous image, clothes soaked and slicked to his form, and dark hair pressed to his skin.  
  
The sound of Watson's laughter, light with youth and ringing in his ears like bells, perhaps, is what sent Holmes over the edge and left him leaning over and catching Watson's head in his hand, kissing the younger man with all the fervor that he had felt for so long.  
  
But Watson's reciprocation of the kiss had been wholly unexpected, and sent Holmes' eyes flying wide open, staring at his younger companion who, upon pulling away, grinned.  
  
"I believe we should get back to the hotel and the dry warmth of our room?" the younger man suggested.  
  
When they boarded the train the next morning, after making certain they would be alone, Holmes reached out, pulling Watson to lean snug against him.

 

\---

 

When Mr. Holmes asked me to arrange a small petty theft for him in Paris, it would be an understatement to claim that I was surprised: my employer commonly works on the side of the law, you understand, and arranging crimes is not what is commonly requested of me. However, Mr. Holmes always has his reasons for his orders, so I went on with it and arranged the theft; nothing serious, I assured the curator of the museum, just a theft of one of the newer, cheaper frames. He would have to tell the younger Mr. Holmes that it was considerably more valuable, of course, but the museum would be put in no financial danger.

 

He agreed, and I set myself to finding a criminal for the job. That was easy enough; I arranged a bargain for the release of a petty thief in exchange for this job. He was eager for his freedom, and agreed to my terms with relative ease. I reported the details to Mr. Holmes, and he approved, so the crime was set into action.

 

Mr. Holmes was not done surprising me, however: he asked me to shadow his younger brother and the ex-soldier he shared a flat with, and to report back to him on their activities upon my return to London. Not being one to deny Mr. Holmes much of anything, nor one to deny a free vacation to Paris, I readily agreed, and so, two days later, I donned a disguise and began to watch the younger Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

 

Watching them on the train ride was astounding; their closeness and familiarity transcended that of many married couples that I had seen, and have seen since then: they drew life from one another, and gave life in return: the younger of the two, Dr. Watson, seemed to glow whenever Mr. Holmes praised him, and Mr. Holmes seemed to catch Dr. Watson's enthusiasm for the sights they passed. I couldn't help but think that if only one had been born a woman, they would have made the most stunning couple in all of England.

 

Paris was amazing: every deduction Mr. Holmes made, no matter how small, set off a light of eager admiration in Dr. Watson's eyes. I was struck again by how well the two men connected, and I began to wonder if, even as two men, that would make the most stunning couple in England.

 

Then came the scene at the Seine. I won't trouble you with the details, but the way they interacted after being drenched, falling into the river, and being drenched again was nothing short of breathtaking. Which was when Dr. Watson suggested they return to the hotel room. It was not until that moment that I realized that my employer had seen what I was seeing: that the two men were in love, and needed only a push in the right direction.

 

When I reported back to Mr. Holmes, I knew that I was correct: his eyes lit, the corners of his mouth turned upward, and he clapped me on the shoulder, saying only this:

 

"Well done, Mr. Melas."


End file.
